


Freight Trains and Unharnessed Energy

by irishprophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:35:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishprophet/pseuds/irishprophet
Summary: Sam realizes that he doesn’t always have faith.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set season up through mid Season 3; set right before Mystery Spot
> 
> This came out when I was trying to write a completely different story for hopefulwriter27, and I had to let it out. I’m dedicating this one to you, unbeta’d and all! <3 I’m still working on your real story, promise! It’s just going very slowly… 

It hits Sam like a freight train the first time he realizes he might not actually save Dean. It’s less than three months before Dean’s due date, _his due date_ , and they’re in a bar in Ainsworth, Nebraska. They’d stopped through Bobby’s earlier that day to follow up on yet another dead end to break the deal. Sam could see Bobby’s face still, his hair sticking out haphazardly from under his ballcap, his lips curled downward in a grimace as he shook his head at Sam’s hopeful face. _Boy, I’ll keep looking. We’ll find something_. Sam had agreed, and tried to shove this latest disappointment down into the well with the rest.

The air is relatively clear, a door propped open to his left, the cool spring air circulating and teasing the smoke out of the small bar. There’s maybe twenty people in the room, a quarter of them by the pool table with Dean. Dean is grinning and talking, and a flush brought on by too many beers fills his face. Two blonde women, both wearing tight flannel shirts, jeans and cowboy boots, lean across a table adjacent to the pool table, furiously whispering and shooting flirting glances at Dean. Dean’s busy entertaining the five males around the pool table, a hodge-podge mixture of Midwestern males in their twenties and thirties, but not too busy to make sure to throw his Cheshire cat smile their way as often as possible.

Sam drinks in the whole scene like a man whose been wandering the desert for days. His heart pulls strangely and a thought _I need to remember him this way_ goes rolling through his brain before he can stop it. The weight of it steals his breath away, and he pushes the newspaper article he’d been reading about their next potential job in Florida away from him. His hands seem to start shaking and twitching of their own accord and his beer sloshes over the table before he can set it down. He hears a wheezing sound and is startled to realize it’s him, it’s his breathing, _Oh god, I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t do THIS._ Sam stumbles as he gets out of the chair, his legs suddenly feeling as unsure as a baby colt’s first steps. He moves awkwardly towards the open door on his left, the ten feet seeming more like ten yards. His head pounds and his entire body feels like it’s tingling, a hyperawareness of the blood rushing through his veins.

Sam makes it outside without catching Dean’s attention. The cool air helps a little, and he leans forward, his hands on his knees. His butt hits the side of the building, the tin siding rattling. He does a slow motion collapse, sliding down the siding until he’s suddenly on the dirt. He pulls his knees up, resting his elbows on them and hanging his head somewhere between his crossed arms and his thighs. His breathing seems so out of control, and he tries counting his breath to slow his breathing down. _In 1, 2, 3 Oh god three months Oh god I can’t do thisthreemonthsthreemonthsthreemonths_ His breathing speeds up, not down, and he tries to regain control again. He tries thinking of nothing, of blanking out.

All he can see is Dean’s face, his face from the night they killed the Yellow Eyed Demon. He remembers how he felt, so mad and sad and fucking amazed by him, and so sure that this was something he could fix. It couldn’t be worse than Nebraska, right? He could fix this too. Except now he’s not so sure. And that’s so close to already giving up _like Dean already has_ that he can’t stand the thought of it. Water is running down his face. Sam looks around, confused by the lack of clouds in the night sky. Belatedly it occurs to him that he’s crying _God, you’re such a girl Samantha_ and Dean’s voice is echoing so loudly in his head he chokes on his laugh. There’s snot running down his face, mixing with the tears to create a sticky mess. His chest is on fire. He’s still unable to catch his breath. A roaring sound echoes through his head and Sam thinks it’s the sound of his blood rushing through his brain. He’s pretty sure he’s going to have a stroke soon, or at least pass out from hyperventilating. All he can think is that if he did have a stroke, maybe he’d at least die and Dean could get out of his deal.

The revving of an engine in the parking lot to his right pulls Sam’s attention away from his inner monologue. Laughter carries in the air from a male in a cowboy hat, his loud guffaws mixed with catcalls directed at the driver of a late 1960s Mustang. Its black paint is dull with a coating of dust, and smoke starts to hazily slide into the air as the driver burns out the tires. Sam is surprised to realize the sound of a revving engine comforts him, the vibrations reaching out and folding around his chest like a hug. His breathing starts to deepen, and the fog surrounding his mind gradually starts to dissipate. The world seems to focus itself, and the tilting horizon rights suddenly. The tin siding vibrates against his back from the rumbling engine, and Sam breathes in deeply. The smell of oil stings his nose and he half thinks, half wishes _ **HOME**_. Home is the Impala, and Sam can’t remember ever feeling as comfortable as he is when he’s inside her four doors. Of course, he doesn’t have any memories of the Impala without Dean, so maybe Dean is home instead. The thought fills him with a renewed faith that he can _will_ save Dean. He’s too young to be both an orphan and homeless.

The laughter to his right gets louder, and Sam realizes that the driver is drawing a small crowd. Patrons from the bar start to stagger out in ones and twos. The small town excitement of watching burn outs on a Friday night is palpable, the air starting to feel like an electric current is snaking its way around everyone. Sam wipes at his face haphazardly, the cool air helping to erase the evidence of his weakness. Sam breathes in deeply a final time, and stands up from his sprawl on the ground. Dean walks out the front of the bar, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face. His eyes glitter in the twilight, and his body seems to lack the rigid tension that’s been their constant companion as of late. Sam drinks in the sight of him, an image of unfettered joy that he hasn’t seen in what feels like years. Dean turns his head, scanning the crowd for Sam.

“Sammy! Do ya see this beauty?” Dean’s voice carries on the air, strong and slightly slurred, the night sounds dull in comparison. Sam clears his throat. “Yeah, Dean. I see.” Sam does see, hope fluttering anew like a butterfly in his chest. He’s not letting go anytime soon. _I’m going to save you if it’s the last thing I do, I promise._ Sam walks over to join his brother, his steps sure under his feet, breath coming steadily. He’s ready now.


End file.
